


Bits and Pieces

by bespelled



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 01:42:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7994008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bespelled/pseuds/bespelled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They noticed each other in bits and pieces, in between chapters and lines of dialogue - those mid-story moments where you just simply had to pause and let yourself breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bits and Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this: http://shuasoo.tumblr.com/post/143790063183/is-anyone-thinking-library-wonsoo-au-because-i

One boy favoured that lone armchair placed at the far end of the History section, its upholstery worn and its once vibrant red colour faded from all the years of use. He would sink down into the soft, pliable leather, unmindful of the sharp, torn edges that dug into his side. 

In fact, the familiarity of it was almost comforting.

The other boy preferred basking in the sunlight spilling in from the library’s large windows - something afforded to him by that small corner table with its one squeaky chair and its wooden surface marked by all its previous occupants. He would always sit with one leg propped up on the seat, while the other swung lazily back and forth, scuffing the soles of his rubber shoes against the linoleum.

(They noticed each other in bits and pieces, in between chapters and lines of dialogue - those mid-story moments where you just simply had to pause and let yourself _breathe_.)

It started with a sniffle for Jisoo, a subtle catch-in-throat sound that would have gone unnoticed if they were anywhere else than where they were. 

He glanced up, startled, only to see the boy across from him - a boy, he realized only then he’d seen many times before - tilt his head backwards in a vain attempt to stop his tears from falling. His hands, the one clutching the book to his chest, was trembling slightly.

And where others may have laughed, or at least have been amused by the other boy’s reactions, Jisoo felt himself moved by the scene - for how many times did he find himself overwhelmed by the emotions elicited by a skillfully executed sentence, overcome by a snippet of dialogue that he felt deserved to exist more than just on a piece of paper.

(Some beginnings happened slowly, built from a handful of instances that only fit together seamlessly as time goes on.)

For Wonwoo, it was a laugh cut off in the middle, a bright sound that had his head snapping up in surprise - only for his gaze to land on the boy across from him, a boy he realized then he’d seen many times before. 

The brunette had one hand covering his mouth, his cheeks slightly flushed as if he were embarrassed that he let the sound escape his lips. His other hand held his book on his lap, one finger stuck between the pages to mark where he left off.

And where others may have gotten annoyed, even angry at such a perceived disturbance, Wonwoo couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth - for how many times did he find himself holding back laughter at a particularly witty scene, felt mirth practically bubble up from his stomach when a character delivered a joke along his own lines of humour (a rare thing indeed, if you ask all his friends.)

(For others, it would have been too slow a build-up, a story abandoned at the fifth chapter for its characters’ stunning lack of urgency.)

(Those types of books, however, were both their personal favourites.)

In that small quiet space they ‘shared’, opportunities only amounted to brief, stolen glances, the sound of pages turning in wonderfully odd synchrony. Exhaled breaths, a thoughtful hum (the type that sounds low in your throat), and a silence that did not weigh heavily but wrapped around them in a familiar embrace.

They each had their own claimed space within the confines of the library, the other only dancing at the peripheries, at the edges of that unmarked, seemingly uncrossable border. They had no name to call the other, save for “the boy whose nose crinkles when he smiles”, or “the boy whose lips match the blush-like hue of his hair.”

“The boy whose gaze could arrest a heart with a single look behind thin-wired glasses.”

“The boy whose soft voice flowed like honey whenever he just so happened to take a phonecall.”

The boy who stood, in a brave, impulsive, stomach-fluttering moment and strode over to the other to lend him his handkerchief when he failed to hold his tears at bay.

(This time, it was Jisoo.) 

The boy who accepted it in pink-lipped, open-mouthed shock, who felt a startling tingle in his fingertips when his hand brushed the other’s for the bare, infinitesimal seconds.

“Jeon Wonwoo.” 

An introduction that fell clumsily from his tongue, in a voice that rumbled from his chest and sank into the other’s bones.

“Hong Jisoo.” 

A near breathless reply, in a tone that reminded the other of coffee and guitar strings, of warmth and the fading stirrings of music in the air.

* * *

One boy used to favour that lone armchair placed at the far end of the History section...

...but now he preferred the empty seat next to the _other_ boy who liked to bask in the sunlight spilling in from the library’s large windows.

Two people who put so much stock in the type of love written in books...

...and yet still they couldn’t believe they found one of their own. 


End file.
